


if you need me

by penceypineapple



Series: idiots in love [6]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Chronic Pain, Day 6: Chronic Pain, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Canon, Supportive Sokka (Avatar), Zukka Week 2021, Zuko's Scar (Avatar)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 20:09:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30144936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penceypineapple/pseuds/penceypineapple
Summary: “I just need a second. Alone. I’ll be fine.”Sokka’s gaze flickers over to the left side of Zuko’s face. “It’s your scar, isn’t it?”He nods weakly. He wants to speak, he wants to explain everything to Sokka who deserves to know what’s going on. But his mind is blurry and empty, and his mouth can’t form any words.He wants to cry.Or: Zuko has been dealing with chronic pain since he got his scar. For years, he’s been trying to hide it from Sokka. Until he can’t hide it anymore.
Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Series: idiots in love [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2213031
Comments: 14
Kudos: 173





	if you need me

**Author's Note:**

> Day 6 for Zukka week: chronic pain + hurt/comfort   
> Can't believe Zukka Week is almost over!

As soon as Zuko opens his eyes, all he wants to do is close them again.

It’s a bad day today. He knows this, he can sense the unpredictability of his mind and body, the familiar sharp twinges of pain that erupt on the left side of his face, the familiar ringing in his left ear, the pounding in his head, the way the bedroom spins before his very eyes until it becomes nothing but a sea of red and gold.

But he must persist. He will get out of bed, in spite of all the pain. He’ll cover his scar in moisturiser and his ointment in an attempt to numb the burning sensation pulsating through his skin. He’ll look at himself in the mirror and try to block out the flames hurling towards his face, his father’s cold smile, his own screams, his uncle’s warm arms wrapping around him saying, _It’s okay, my nephew. You’re okay_. He’ll get dressed and make his bed despite his servants insisting on doing it for him. He’ll do his hair up in a top-knot, despite it usually making his headaches worse. He’ll sit down for breakfast with Sokka, and he’ll partake in small talk about the weather and their schedules for the day, and Sokka will have no idea he’s in pain _(He can’t know. He’ll never know)._ He’ll attend boring meetings about politics and economics, but he’ll struggle understand what the council members are saying over the ringing in his ear, or through the brain fog that clouds his mind. He’ll try his best to get through the day without showing a single sign that he’s struggling.

And if Sokka asks, “Are you okay?”, he’ll say, “I’m fine, Sokka. Just a little tired.” And if Sokka says, “Come on, let’s take a nap”, he’ll say, “I don’t need to. I’m fine, really. Stop worrying.” He won’t intend to come across as grumpy, but he knows he usually can’t help his tone of voice, his choice of words. He has no control over what comes out of his mouth, especially on bad days where his internal anger and frustration at himself, his own weaknesses, spills out into the outside world like dark, poisonous venom. But he won’t let it get to that point, he reminds himself. He’ll cover it up, put on his mask, in a desperate attempt to convince Sokka, to convince everyone, even to convince himself, that nothing is wrong.

_Today, I’m a shadow. Today, I’m a façade. And tomorrow, I’ll be Zuko again._

“Zuko?”

He pulls the blanket up over his head, a cocoon, protecting himself from the outside world. But he’s also protecting Sokka from his bitterness, his rage, his selfishness, a dark part of himself that, in adulthood, he’s repressed within the murky depths of his consciousness. He’d made that mistake as a teenager, letting his cold, seething self-hatred slip from his thoughts and spill into the world, a whirlwind of destruction, like the very flames that spat from his fingertips. Like the world was a beautiful painting and he had torn the canvas from the wall and set fire to it.

At sixteen, he destroyed everything he touched. But now, at twenty, he’s older. More tired, more drained, the rageful energy that once seeped through his veins has evaporated into the air like mist, leaving nothing but fogginess and lethargy behind. Although the anger isn’t gone, he knows to repress it, for the sake of his loved ones, for the sake of the world. The world, which also hovers in a delicate balance between peace and war.

Despite his silence, his bedroom door creaks open. He pulls down his blanket just enough to see Sokka stepping cautiously inside, lingering in the doorway.

It’s like Sokka’s speaking to him through a brick wall. Although Sokka’s mouth is clearly moving, his mind isn’t processing much of what he’s saying. The only thing he manages to catch is, _‘I thought firebenders rose with the sun’._

“What time is it?” he mumbles, the mere act of moving his face causing a stabbing pain to shoot through his scar. All he wants to do is go back to sleep and not have to speak or interact with anyone whatsoever. The last thing he wants is pity.

Sokka smiles, but his eyes remain laced with concern. “It’s almost eleven. Did you stay up late last night or something?”

His voice is rough as he tries to get words out, but his mind is slow and hazy and struggles to piece together a coherent sentence. “Yeah.”

He did stay up late. But not because he was drowning in work, in reading documents about proposed changes to the law or the Fire Nation’s annual budget. Instead, he was lying in bed for hours in agony, staring at the ceiling, clenching his jaw and clenching his fists, holding an ice pack over his scar hoping, just _hoping_ , the pain would go away tomorrow and he’d be able to get out of bed and function normally. His wish was clearly not granted. He doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s the unstable, windy weather. Maybe it’s because of stress. Or maybe his body is betraying him for no reason at all.

The mattress dips as Sokka sits down at the foot of their massive bed. “Do you want to go back to sleep?” his voice is gentle, soft, as if he’s already noticed something is wrong. Sokka has always been able to speak Zuko’s language, to perceive all the moods and emotions his boyfriend hovers between, to understand everything despite no words being uttered.

Although his body sinks into the mattress and a heaviness clouds his mind, he doesn’t want to go back to sleep. He’s in too much pain for the hazy blanket of sleep to descend over his consciousness. He knows he must get up, apologise to all the palace staff who have been waiting for him, and resume his duties for the day like nothing’s wrong.

The world is murky and distant as he sits up, failing to fully process his surroundings. It’s all too much. The weak sunlight streaming through his window is too bright. Sokka’s voice is too loud. Even the sound of shoes drumming against the marble corridors outside is enough to overwhelm his senses. He flinches at everything, and buries his pounding head in his hands, fingers gripping his knotty hair as the waves of pain pulsate through his face. He’s drowning in it, causing him to slip further away from reality, descending into the past, towards the source of the pain. It’s like his face is on fire all over again. He can’t move. He can’t speak. He can’t stop shaking. All he can do is sit there and breathe, waiting for it all to pass. His ambitious plans of getting through the day seem impossible now.

But Sokka doesn’t understand this. He doesn’t understand that his voice is too loud, that the room is too bright, that his boyfriend’s scar is hurting. _How could he, if Zuko has never told him?_

“Zuko?” his voice is panicked, with an almost frantic tone that only makes Zuko feel worse. “Zuko, are you okay? What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry, for nothing’s wrong, and everything’s wrong, both at the same time. All he can do is shrug, still curled in on himself, knees pressed into his chest as he tries to drown all the noise out of his head, tries to ignore the pain and focus on nothing but his breathing, nothing but silence.

It’s his fault. He should’ve told Sokka about his chronic pain earlier. If he’d done that, Sokka wouldn’t be panicking like he is now. All this could have been avoided. For he’s been living a lie. A lie that he won’t be in pain, that Sokka will never see him in pain, that he’ll be able to hide it from his own boyfriend somehow.

“Do you want me to get your physician?”

He shakes his head.

“Did you have a nightmare?”

He shakes his head again.

“Is it your head? Do you have a headache?”

He shrugs.

“Zuko, I don’t- I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. You’re not exactly giving me much to work with here.”

Something about Sokka’s words causes Zuko to lift his head up and meet his boyfriend’s gaze. _“I don’t want you to do anything!”_ he hisses through the twinges of pain. It’s getting worse now, so bad that he can hardly focus on anything else. He can feel the rage bubbling through his veins, rage at his thirteen year old self and his own childish mistakes, mistakes that caused him a lifetime sentence of pain that will consume his life forever. Pain that will throw off any hope of maintaining a consistent schedule and make him a terrible Fire Lord. Pain that will inevitably morph into anger, and make him an even worse boyfriend. Pain that will destroy him, as well as everyone else around him.

_Why doesn’t he ever learn from his mistakes?_

He hates the look on Sokka’s face. Silvery-blue eyes wide with a delicate mixture of sorrow and concern and… _fear_. Sokka is afraid of him, and it’s all his fault.

“Leave. Please,” he manages to get out, clutching his scar with his hand. Sometimes pressure helps, other times it only further irritates the damaged nerves. This time, it neither helps not worsens his pain. His scar barely even processes the feeling of touch beneath the burning sensation pulsating through it like a raging forest fire. “I just need a second. Alone. I’ll be fine.”

Sokka’s gaze flickers over to the left side of Zuko’s face. “It’s your scar, isn’t it?”

He nods weakly. He wants to speak, he wants to explain everything to Sokka who deserves to know what’s going on, but his mind is blurry and empty, and his mouth can’t form any words.

He wants to cry.

“Does your ointment help?”

He nods. “A little. It’s just over there,” he says, vaguely gesturing to the bedside table. He’s had to put it on every single morning since he first woke up on the ship. If he doesn’t, his scar will be dry and tight and even more painful than usual.

A cool sensation washes over his left cheek as Sokka massages the ointment into his inflamed skin. He lets out a shaky sigh, hands still clenched into tight fists. The pain momentarily releases its tight grip on his soul, allowing him a few seconds to catch his breath, to regain his strength and composure. Before another wave of pain shoots through his face again, and it’s like he’s thrown back into the ocean, waves crashing over his head as his lungs fill with water.

Sokka’s hand wraps around his, gently prying his fists open, revealing the four crescent moons that line his palms. A finger traces along each arc, so light and delicate that Zuko isn’t sure if he’s imagining it. He sucks in a sharp breath. Hands grasp his own, sliding into place so easily, like they were always meant to be there.

* * *

_Together, they sit down on the snowy cliffside, overlooking the icy sea. The ocean breeze slices through Zuko’s heart, chilling his bones. And he finds himself yearning for Sokka’s warmth, his touch, his shimmering face in the beautiful daylight. He yearns for the kisses he knows he will never receive. His lips are dry and cracked, his yearnings nothing more than a distant fantasy._

_The war has been over for a year, and yet there remains a certain closeness to it, ghosts of the past haunting their shattered reality as they attempt to rebuild Sokka’s old home, the Southern Water Tribe. Outwardly, everyone has become more distant, retreating further into themselves, eyes glazed over and expressions cold, carrying on through the bleak earth, through the silence. For they were kids after all, kids who’d fought in a war, how can anyone recover from that?_

_“Is your leg okay?” Zuko asks, shooting Sokka a concerned glance._

_“It’s fine. It’s probably just because of the cold.” His face carries a certain glimmer of disgust as he glances down at his leg, dangling over the cliffside. Disgust, perhaps at himself, his body’s own failings. Zuko knows that feeling all too well, and yet he remains silent, unable to speak without triggering painful memories._

_Zuko shifts closer, placing his warm hands over Sokka’s leg. He starts to massage it, undoing the knots and soothing the cramps that have been bothering his friend all day. Gentle heat radiates from his pams, travelling up and down Sokka’s leg, to the bones that never quite healed right, his knee that keeps bucking, his ankle that seems to tense up in pain with every other step._

_“Thank you,” Sokka says, body relaxing into Zuko’s gentle touch._

_But Zuko’s face remains empty, and there’s nothing in his eyes._

* * *

“Is there anything else I can do?” Sokka asks.

He knows Sokka won’t like the answer, but he must say it anyway. “Not really. I just have to wait for it to pass.”

Sokka squeezes his hand. “Okay.”

With that, Sokka wraps his arms around Zuko’s shoulders and pulls him into his chest, planting a delicate kiss on the top of his head. He pulls the blanket up so it wraps around them both as they lie there in bed, together, in the silence. They remain like that for what feels like hours, time passing in a haze.

“I’m sorry,” Zuko eventually croaks, squeezing his eyes shut as a single tear falls down his right cheek _(“You don’t deserve someone like Sokka”, his consciousness taunts him)_. The pain is gradually subsiding now, the hot, burning sensation on his face dulling down into tolerable twinges of pressure. His entire body is still trembling as if he’s cold, and Sokka holds him a little tighter.

“For what?” Sokka still hasn’t let go of his hand.

“For not telling you about… about this.”

“It’s okay,” Sokka assures him, twirling the loose strands of Zuko’s hair around his fingers. “Does this happen a lot?”

He nods against Sokka’s chest. “It’s not as bad as it used to be, but yeah. Some days are better than others.”

* * *

_“Try not to touch it, Prince Zuko.”_

_Uncle Iroh’s gentle words coax him to take his hand off the left side of his face. Even after one year, he’s forever burning, as if a thin flame is perpetually running under his skin._

_“It hurts.” His voice cracks. He’s trembling all over. In the dark, his eyes see nothing. He forgets time, for it slips away through his fingers, dissolving like grains of sand. He forgets life, for sleep can’t bring peace that lasts long enough, forever haunted by nightmares of the past._

_“I know, my dear nephew. I know.”_

_The smell of freshly brewed jasmine tea fills the room, and the fire in his chest subsides._

_Under their feet, the ship rises and falls along the silver waves that heave along the sea, rocking them both back to sleep._

* * *

Together, Sokka and Zuko listen to the silence, as the sun climbs higher in the pale-blue sky, golden rays warming the earth below. In Sokka’s arms, Zuko allows himself to submit to the demands of his day, to let go of his obligations, his council meetings and speeches and fancy dinners with nameless politicians. As his steady breathing falls into rhythm with Sokka’s, he forgives yesterday and forgets tomorrow. He basks in the present, for the first time in years, with the midday light warming his soul. The pain isn’t gone. His face still aches and itches and burns, and maybe that pain will remain part of him forever. But Sokka brings peace, for love is always with him, and love is stronger than anything else.

_“Sokka?”_

_“Yeah?”_

_“I love you.”_

_“I love you too.”_


End file.
